


Strange Shores, Stranger Tidings

by xanemarths



Series: 200 Years of (Holy) War [3]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War, Fire Emblem: Thracia 776
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Both Ayra and Lakche are trans and you can't tell me no, F/F, Family Reunions, Major Thracia Spoilers, Mentions of Slavery, Minor Character Death, No Lesbians Die, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 08:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13947462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xanemarths/pseuds/xanemarths
Summary: The sword washed up next to her when she was first found, without her memories. Eyvel doesn't know for certain, isn't sure how much she believes in “fate” - but this, she is sure, cannot be a coincidence.(In which Eyvel remembers nothing, yet longs for something, and in some past life, Ayra and Brigid were happy. Written for fefemslashweek; anger/fire/edge)





	Strange Shores, Stranger Tidings

**Author's Note:**

> Brigid/Ayra is a good ship and here's my list of reasons why, but presented in like, fanfic format.

The swordhilt in her hand is unnatural; the swordhilt fits in her hand like no other weapon. She's tried to wield other weapons; she's whittled bows that fit in her hand and sang like something deep in her blood, but they didn't fit and they weren't hers, weren't whatever it was she was missing.

The sword washed up next to her when she was first found, without her memories. Eyvel doesn't know for certain, isn't sure how much she believes in “fate” - but this, she is sure, cannot be a coincidence. 

* * *

_Ayra shines bright, her temper like a flame; she makes quick and easy work of the training dummies. Leaning against a nearby pillar, Brigid can't help but cluck her tongue. “You do realize that someone might need those, right? At the rate you train, we'll be fresh outta them sooner than later.”_

_Ayra snorts at_ that _, but the smile she shoots Brigid is nothing less than genuine. “I suppose I'll just have to practice against something else, then,” she says, before walking over to a carefully wrapped bundle. She pulls out a sword - one of the many she owned - and tossed it to Brigid. The archer catches it with relative ease; her reflexes are sharp, and it doesn't seem Ayra meant to make the catch difficult._

_Ayra is still smiling at her, but the smile is more akin to a devilish smirk now. “Are you ready?” she demands, and Brigid raises both her eyebrows, before turning her gaze towards her sword, slowly pulling it from its sheath._

_“I thought I was an archer, not a swordswoman - I think I'd be a pretty piss-poor opponent for you.” It's a simple fact, nothing more; if Ayra wanted a sparring partner, there were plenty of others in the army - hell, plenty of other women! - who were trained in the sword._

_But Ayra, once set in her mind, won't be budged. “You always have time to learn! And what better way to learn than through practice!?”_

_On ‘practice’, her voice changes to something between a ferocious battle cry and a whoop of excitement, and with no further warning, she launches herself towards Brigid. They meet with a clash of iron against iron, and Brigid knows just enough about swords to know that her feet shouldn't have stumbled that much, nor is she parrying properly._

_Ayra, trained swordswoman, knows this, too. “Move your feet! Faster! Tighten your stance! Parry!”_

_“Whatcha think I'm trying to do here!?” Brigid shouts back, indignant; it's to no avail, though. Within minutes, she's on the ground, and Ayra has a smirk on her face and a boot on Brigid’s chest. “I won,” she says, simply, and that's true. She did win; of course she won. Brigid huffs and pushes herself back up into a sitting position, agitated. “You wouldn't be winning if I was usin’ my Yewfelle,” she mutters, and Ayra snorts before sitting on the ground next to her. “Yes, but I also couldn't spar against you if you were wielding a bow and arrow.”_

_Brigid snorts. “But why's there a point to fighting me like this? What's the use of me learning swordplay? I have_ Yewfelle _, Ayra; shooting a bow’s in my blood. Why’d I ever give that up?  
Ayra smiles. “Best to always be prepared, Brig. Who knows what skills you might need on the morrow.”_

* * *

____

The girl is cowering in a cage, and Eyvel sees red - red, red, and then literally red, as blood spills before her. The slave traders shriek in fear, and some try to call for guards, for aid - but Eyvel will not have it. She does not stop until the last of them is lying dead at her feet in a pool of blood, and the red recedes from her vision and gives way to panting, gives way to the frantic worries of before.

Her hands shake as she forces the lock, too panicked to even bother searching for the key, and she bends down to the girl's level and croons, gently, the first notes of a lullaby she doesn't remember. The girl is terrified, has every right to be - has every right to not trust the monster who'd just slaughtered thirty men in a matter of minutes, has every right to not trust anyone who tried to touch her ever again - but the lullaby seems to relax her, almost instantly, and after that it's very easy for Eyvel to scoop the girl up, into her arms, and cradle her close as they make their journey back home.

Her name is Mareeta. It was impossible to leave her. Something in that black hair and childish face awakened an instinct long-forgotten in Eyvel, an instinct she wasn't even aware she had.

As Mareeta glances curiously at Eyvel’s swords, the woman can't help but wonder if she'd been a mother, before she forgot. 

* * *

_She's utterly_ exhausted _, but her sister is, truly, a wonderful nurse. “I guess twins run in the family,” she mutters to Ayra, who snorts. One of the twins is cradled gently in her arms, and Ayra seems well-aware that what she's holding is a little miracle._

_“Identical twins, too. I thought… gods, Brigid, I never thought I'd…”_

_She doesn't need to finish. Brigid knows. “Never thought you'd be a mother. Well, neither did I, but I don't think my reasons can really compare to yours.”_

_The twin that's lying on her chest huffs, and Brigid cradles him with a gentleness she didn't know she had in her until this very moment. “So, they're definitely_ your _kids, Ayra - they've got all the features of Isaach in them. You wanna take the task of naming ‘em?”_

That had been their agreement, after all - while they'd hoped all their children could experience Isaachian culture, the ones clearly of Ayra’s blood were to be named with Isaachian names, and those clearly of Brigid’s blood could be named whatever the hell she wanted.

Ayra has clearly thought about this. “Skasaher,” she says, lifting her twin just slightly, “and Lakche. They are names fit for twins, and they're very easily shortened for nicknames.”

Brigid nods - Ska and Lak, Skasaher and Lakche. “Solid names,” she agrees. “I like the sound of them.”

It's a very calm moment, tranquil, quiet. The world around them falls away, until it's just them and their children, and all the wars outside their windows mean nothing to them at all. __

* * *

Finn can't be right. There's no mark of Ulir, only an ugly burn; she's never wielded a bow, only swords; she doesn't _remember who he is!_

And yet, as Eyvel’s world almost crashes down around her, her sword remains ever-comforting by her side. She needs calm, she needs quiet, she needs peace; as soon as there's a moment, she steals away, and begins to sharpen her sword.

There's no point. The blade is sharp enough already, yet she still frantically drags her sharpening stone across its edge, as though that might soothe her spirits.

There is a name on the sword. There always has been. She had assumed it was just a name; weapons were frequently named, after all, for valiant deeds, in hopes of strengthening their power.

 _Ayra_.

It's not the name of the sword. It's a declaration of ownership.

She cradles it to her, and weeps for a woman she cannot remember. 

* * *

_The fire is everywhere, choking, consuming. Sigurd was incinerated almost immediately; the rest of the army sputters and scrambles and prays for an exit from the ever-growing inferno. Brigid huffs as she runs, still unfit from her last pregnancy; she watched as Alec and Noish foolishly tried to save Sigurd, only to be consumed by flames themselves; she watched as Lex tossed Azel, screaming, at least twenty feet through the air, to the very limits of the fire - before he disappeared amongst the flames, himself._

_Ayra is ahead of her, carving a path, frantically trying to bring them both to safety-_

_And then, a nearby tree collapses towards them, too weakened by the fire to stand, and the world Brigid knew goes_

_Very_

_Dark._

* * *

Shanam is nothing more than a sham, and she's able to tell Mareeta this with a strange confidence. So maybe she doesn't remember the real Shanan, but he _was_ her nephew-in-law, and that has to count for something. When Leaf and his crew decide to join with Celice's Liberation Army, she follows. A part of her knows she shouldn't, not now, not while she doesn't remember - but she follows, anyway.

Edain almost collapses on seeing her face. Faval keeps gaping like a fish and trying to shove the Yewfelle into her grasp (no, no, she smiles as she shoves it back; it's his now, rightfully), and Patty shrieks and cries and dances around her and shows off everything she has on her at the moment and more. Shanan cries like a child; he's no longer the holy soldier, wielder of Balmung, but a boy who'd grown up far too quickly. Lakche and Skasaher are slower in their approach, uncertain of this mother, but when Eyvel says Lakche is so much like Ayra, that she couldn't hope for a more beautiful daughter, she breaks and cries and suddenly both her and Skasaher have crowded around her as well.

Mareeta is wary and left out for two seconds, before Shanan is showing her Balmung, and for the second time in a matter of months it glows the golden of a majorblood holding their holy weapon for the first time. This catches the attention of Ska and Lak, and soon they're dancing around Mareeta, clamoring for her to join them for sword practice.

It's all Eyvel could have hoped for and more, but there is still a void in her heart that can't settle, won't settle.

The Last Crusade is won, and the children of Sigurd’s army of old decide that the system of government in Jugdral was outdated and wrong, and set to work implementing something newer, better. Eyvel settles around for the discussion; too many of the people she cares about are involved for her to leave.

But she _does_ wander away from Belhalla, sometimes. Just to experience the land surrounding it, to experience the _people._

And then one catches her eye, with long, jet black hair, dark eyes, and an obvious burnscar up her face.

“Do I know you?” she asks, breath catching in her throat - and the woman turns to her, eyes wide with disbelief - and then, relief, and then, longing.

“ _Brigid_ ,” Ayra whispers, voice rough and hoarse from something that isn't just emotion - but it doesn't matter, and Eyvel doesn't see the use in explaining that Brigid is no longer her name when she's being swept up by the first solid feeling of _home_ that she's had since washing up on the shores so many years ago.

**Author's Note:**

> Ayra is a trans woman and so is Lakche. This is why Ayra mentions not knowing if she'd ever have children, and also explains why the twins were described as identical/why Lakche gets so emotional when Brigid calls her a wonderful daughter.
> 
> I could have kept this canon compliant but let's be real, I wanted Brigid to reunite with her kids, and the prospect of Balmung wielding Mareeta is cool as fuck, and Edain Deserved Better and part of Deserving Better means hitching a ride with Celice's army instead of being shafted in gen2, and killing your gays is bad practice so fuck you Ayra lived.
> 
> Edit: fixed a typo, thanks to a friend catching it. However, it was too good to not acknowledge, so let us always remember the time Brigid was not partying properly.


End file.
